


The Human Factor

by chezchuckles



Series: Army Castle [4]
Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: Army Spy, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27158542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chezchuckles/pseuds/chezchuckles
Summary: 4th in the Army Spy series.
Relationships: Kate Beckett & Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Series: Army Castle [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945063
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	The Human Factor

She was asleep when he found a book in her bag. The bag she took with her to the precinct, strapped down on her motorcycle, the bag she carried extra clothes in or a laundered uniform.

It was snooping, but he always employed it carefully, with the precision of a man in the field for a long time, and she had never caught him at it. He snooped because he loved, and because she wasn’t a woman to lower her walls for anything, not even him, and he had to come around the back ways to discover anything of true worth about Kate Beckett.

She was reading a thin novel by Graham Greene called The Human Factor, and the cover was austere and nondescript for all that. He turned it over because he was always looking for another book of hers to read, and the name of the main character caused a jolt through his body.

Castle.

The main character was him. Was even a spy for the British Secret Service. In the home office, but he was a double agent somehow, and anyway what mattered here was this was all about him.

He replaced the book quickly, his fingers trembling, and he closed the flap on her bag and said nothing. He walked into her bedroom on silent feet, knowing she was deeply asleep after a long day at the precinct.

Beckett was sprawled half across the bed in her boots and pants with her uniform undershirt still on - that ribbed and form-fitting tank top that made her look svelte and industrial all in one. He knelt before the bed and began unlacing her shoes, one after another, easing open the constricted leather, loosening the tongue.

She would never explain why she was reading the book, or what had drawn her to it, or even claim the book at all. She would lie and say someone had given it to her, or that she’d had it a long time and was trying to push it off on a used book store. She wouldn’t admit, she would never surrender.

Castle would never ask. She was asleep. He had managed the first boot and now he worked off the second and she gasped and came awake, instantly.

He crouched over her, a hand on her back in reassurance it’s me, I just got back and she pulled her knee up, her socked foot digging at the covers. He pulled off the second boot and she whined something in her half-sleep, pretending she hadn’t been blind-fear shocked just moments before.

He stood over her and turned her onto her back. Her eyes were open and more aware than she probably wanted to be at one in the morning. He unbuttoned her pants and released the zipper and she arched in an urgent way, her breath coming fast. On the heels of her panic came now the thrust of her lust and his own was already there to match it.

He tugged down her pants and she was left in socks, panties, and that tank. He liked her in the socks, he liked the feel of sweaty cotton against his calf as he laid over her; it implied a degree of domesticity they never had, a familiarity that allowed him ownership of something.

Of her.

She was arching into him, ready for it, more than ready, her eagerness almost desperate.

She was reading a book and imagining it was him, and the fact that it was Graham Greene told him it would not end well, it wouldn’t be happily ever after. It would be all too true.

He didn’t want eager; he wanted to be as agonizing as a Graham Greene novel. He wanted his love to leave an impression on her for years, like a novel that had ended before she wanted it to, a novel that had never promised hope and yet in which she had still hoped.

He pressed his mouth to the flash of skin between her panties and the shirt which rode up, and she whimpered. Her hands clutched, her heels dug into the backs of his thighs, trying to pull him up to her. He skimmed her shirt up, bunching it under her breasts, and he kissed the flutter of her heartbeat in the white skin of her belly. The place where it seemed to jump for him, at his approach.

“Please,” she gasped.

He licked inside her belly button and nipped the top of her panties, laid out over her so that her thighs were trapped by his torso. She lurched upward when his mouth connected with the jut of her hip bone, but he pressed her down again.

“Please,” she urged.

He hooked two fingers in her panties and tugged one side down. Flared his hand over the rise of her flank. The soft and pink skin. He had been here before, but his time was always so rushed. A few hours, a day, and this time he was going to ignore the fact that he had to be back in Ireland soon. He wasn’t going to think about Ireland or his father or what he still had left to do; he wouldn’t even compare now with before. He would forget that he was waiting only for his intel to pan out before he had to leave again.

He was home.

End of sentence. End of thinking.

He dragged her panties down. She scissored her legs eagerly to help and it gave him the chance to pin her to the bed and lie on top of her. Wholly. She grunted in dissatisfaction, her legs were closed this way, but he pressed down harder, giving her his full weight.

The bones of her pelvis and legs popped; she let out a little sigh. She liked it too, craved it. He lifted his torso only long enough to yank off his own shirt, and when he came back down he felt her exposed stomach against his stomach, her tank top at his nipples. He felt her squirming under him for friction.

“Pants,” she said helpfully. Hopefully.

He ran his hands under her shirt instead, disarranging her bra. The wire and padding, the cotton at his fingers, the sudden heat of skin, the heft of her breasts. She groaned and he kneaded her flesh, gripping her breasts just to tighten his hands around something of hers, to squeeze.

She grew a little breathless now, her head tossing on the pillow, and her hands gripped his ass in the same way.

He wanted to come on her breasts. He wanted her hands to grip and pull him there and let him loosen the first tightening intensity of his need all across her skin. He wanted to hold off on being inside her. She’d want to use her mouth, he knew; she craved using her mouth on him. But no. He wanted instead to fondle her breasts and come like relief across her skin, relief and a little shame, and then make it up to her.

“Castle,” she whispered. “It’s torture.”

He came down chest to chest with her and pressed his mouth to hers. She moaned and devoured him, slicking inside for his taste, probing with her tongue. He grappled her body, arms coming under and around her, dragging her up into him. Pressing urgently into the soft divide of her legs.

She rocked up into him; he rocked down. Her mouth suckling at his tongue as if she derived nurture from him this way. As if she were hungry. “Eight weeks,” she whispered somewhere, another long pull of her mouth. Her hand was in his pants and trying to push between them. “Eight fucking weeks without this.”

He felt the violence of her need, the insistence of her hand at his hip, his belly, the way her legs tried to splay wider to press him where she wanted. Crush me. He felt the way she attacked his mouth, and he had to battle at this strange sadness that had welled inside him. He felt her breasts under his chest, the sharp jab of her bra, and more - her body in his arms.

“Eight weeks and sex isn’t any good if it’s not with you,” she growled.

He stopped thinking about it so much. He humped against her, thrusting to drive his pulsing cock deeper into the friction of clothing and flesh. He dry fucked her, forcing her hips up to meet his in an angle that gave her nothing, and he ejaculated with a sharp cry, a bloom of heat in his pants.

He collapsed on top of her, heavy, barely breathing, and for a moment, she held him there. Her fingers at the back of his neck, scratching lightly, her lips smudged at his cheek, her breath still coming in pants at his ear. He could feel her heart racing but his own was slowing down.

She rolled him over. He fell to his back, opened his eyes. She was perched above him, unbuckling his belt and unthreading it. She unzipped his pants and put her hand inside, rubbed his semen into his cock, slick and hot, and of course he thickened for her. The shame of taking his need filled his chest, but her hand down his pants and massaging his cock was a good penance.

“You feel better now?” she murmured, a raised eyebrow. She tugged on his pants and he lifted his hips to help, let her undress him the way he’d done to her. She stripped off her tank top, then the socks, and unclasped her bra, flung it away. Her breasts were ripe and heavy with how much she wanted him.

He laid his hand on her thigh, rubbed the warm skin. She lifted to her knees and it made his hand fall away but she grabbed for it, circled his wrist. She nudged down her panties and she brought his hand to her thatch of wild curls. His fingers sought her heat with lazy energy, and she plunged his hand inside her panties.

She curled her fingers to the backs of his and he was soaked with her arousal.

Kate let out a little noise, eyes fluttering as she spoke, “You feel better, and yet you leave me like this.”

He stroked his fingers through her sex, felt her weeping to his fingers, pooling in his palm. He didn’t work her, he explored, memorizing like a blind man. But so joyous he was able to watch her face. She tipped her head to the side and her eyes half-closed, her hips bumping up and then falling down hard, sitting back on her heels beside him. Her legs were spread. His hand was caught by her hand and the waistband of her panties, and he circled his thumb at the high point of her clit.

She gasped his name.

He made his fingers so slick he could barely feel anything of her but the slippery wetness, and then he pushed two fingers inside her.

She stiffened and jerked, he had to remove one finger to ease his middle finger deeper, like a lewd gesture. She was so tight and cramped; her hips shimmied with her panting breaths. He fucked her with his middle finger, stretching the narrow mouth of her sex (she’d said sex wasn’t the same without him, but who else?), and he pressed against her inside muscles to make her accept him.

She cried out; her muscles flared and contracted. He added another finger and she moaned, her head falling back.

To punish her for not taking him in immediately, he forced in three fingers, digging his way past her resistance. Curling up. She startled upwards like a bird scared from the roost, and his hand came up with her, pushing deep.

She worked a dirty swivel around his fingers and bowed forward, gripping his wrist. It meant her face was close, hair falling to touch his shoulder, when she finally climaxed.

She gave a cry and bucked her hips against his hand, and he dug hard inside her, working her now, really wanting it, prolonging her orgasm.

She fell on top of him, his arm pinned and throbbing with a sharp twist, but her body was sweat-heated and plastered to his. Bucking through the last spasms of her orgasm. He withdrew his fingers and instead wrapped his arm around her, traced wet circles on her side under the place where her breast was smashed to him.

She shivered and dragged her lips against his throat. “Welcome home.”

It was as shocking a statement as love.

He buried his face in her hair and turned them in the bed, twined their legs together to be as close as he could get. His messy boxers made her skin flinch, but it was only the chill, the wet spot, and he could feel her hanging onto him just as hard.

He kissed under her eye and down her cheek and then to her lips. “Pull me out, love,” he husked, his throat swamped with emotion. “Take me out and fit me to you. I want inside you now.”

She did as he ordered, their bodies bumping because they were so close, because there wasn’t room for it. She slicked her fingers in his drying seed, smoothed across his cock; he was most of the way there, he needed only to have her fit him to that wet mouth.

She adjusted her hips, hiked her knee up to nearly his ribs, and he gave a little thrust. She grunted and he penetrated deeper, felt the heat of her wrapping around him. He pressed his hand to her back and angled her a little more, and now it was right. Now he fit smoothly.

He pushed inside and withdrew, pushed deeper again. She set up a rocking motion, rubbing her body against his, her mouth open at his shoulder. She bit, and he knew she was feeling it too, she bit down harder and he knew she was overwhelmed.

He made love to her, and he made sure it lasted a long time.

He would have to leave her before the sun rose.


End file.
